


Tell Me Your Story

by elizaye



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Human Castiel, M/M, Post Season 8, Season 9 never happened, Timed Fic, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaye/pseuds/elizaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A woman mysteriously similar to Dean appears soon after Castiel is cast out of Heaven. She offers him a ride to Lebanon, KS, and Castiel, seeing no other viable option, accepts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written in 50-minute sessions (except Chapter 3 because I was interrupted multiple times). I do have thoughts on how it should be continued, but they're vague and I've left them unwritten because I want to have no already-written material when I start each timed write.
> 
>  **WARNING:** This fic will not be updated regularly. I intend to continue whenever inspiration strikes, because without inspiration, it's hard for me to squeeze out a decent bit of fic in fifty minutes.

He can’t think about it. Can’t think about it.  _Won’t_  think about it.

After the last light has faded from the night sky, Castiel forces his mind to clear. He may be human now (fragile, incomplete,  _wrong_ ), but he’s been a soldier for thousands of years. He knows strategy, knows how to compartmentalize.

So he shoves the thoughts of his now-fallen brethren (dead, dying,  _wrong_ ) as far into the back of his mind as he can, focusing instead on the most immediate problem.

He is alone, in a forested area, unidentifiable by any sort of familiar landmarks. He instinctively tries to stretch his wings (fractured, faded, gone,  _wrong_ ), and the ache in his chest is sharper than he’s used to. This he needs to pack away as well.

Remaining rational is the only way he will get through this. Distantly, he marvels at the already-manifesting will to survive that is one of the core qualities of humanity.

Making up his mind, Castiel treks through the forest, choosing one direction at random and striking out in a straight line—if he changes directions, he is likely to get lost (rejected, thrown away,  _wrong_ ) and end up walking around in circles.

His reasoning pays off. No more than twenty minutes later, he reaches a two-lane blacktop, and where there are roads, there are cars. Where there are cars, Castiel can flag down a driver, find someone to help him on his way to the Winchesters. Because there is no one else for him to turn to.

There is no one else he  _wants_  to turn to.

Failure or no failure, Dean has maintained that Castiel is family, and that means he can earn forgiveness.

With the thought of Dean, some of Castiel’s will crumbles, and he forces himself to wall that up. He needs to stay lucid, cannot have a mental breakdown in the middle of nowhere. He cannot think of his brothers’ plights (stranded, abandoned,  _wrong_ ), cannot—

He hears the rumbling sound of an engine in the distance and instantly turns toward it, grateful for the distraction. Sure enough, moments later, a car appears, still a few turns away but visible through the thinned-out forest near the road.

Castiel stands at the edge of the road and holds a hand out, hoping that the driver will stop. The odds of the driver being a demon are small, but Castiel mentally recites the incantation for an exorcism, just in case the fall ruined some of his memory recall. Every word is perfectly clear.

The car slows to a stop in front of Castiel, and the driver, a middle-aged woman, leans over to frown at him. The passenger-side window slides down halfway, and she asks, “What are you doing out here, sir?”

“I’m lost, and I need some assistance to reach a friend of mine,” Castiel says.

“How did you end up out here, though? Did your car break down or something?”

“I may have been stranded. I’ve… I’ve been hitchhiking to my friend’s home in Lebanon, Kansas, and the last driver left me here.”

The woman deliberates for a moment before unlocking the door. “Hop on in, then,” she says.

Too easy, something tells him. This is too easy. “Why are you helping me?” Castiel asks.

The woman shrugs. “Guess I’m feeling like a good samaritan. C’mon, get in. The next town’s not for forty, fifty miles.”

Castiel opens the door and slides into the car, because what other choice does he have? He could walk along the road and wait for the next car to come by, but the likelihood of flagging down two cars does not seem good.

“So, what’s your name, stranger?” the woman asks.

Sudden, inexplicable panic floods Castiel’s chest, and he inexplicably says the first name that comes to mind—“Dean.”

“Hmm,” the woman grunts. “You don’t look much like a Dean. Well, my name’s Alana. And it just so happens that I’m driving to Lawrence, so Lebanon’s on the way.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. This is definitely too easy. “If you are offering to take me all the way there, I would be very grateful.”

Alana flashes a half-smile in his direction. “Sure. It’s on my way, anyway.” After a moment of silence, she says, “So, why don’t you tell me your story?”

“Story?”

“Yeah. You’re hitchhiking from Montana to Kansas—gotta be a reason why,” Alana says. “Your friend couldn’t help you out, buy you a bus ticket at least?”

“He… no, he did not have the means,” Castiel says, and he remembers Dean’s demand to return to Sam. He shivers at the possibility that Sam has gone already. Dean must have stopped him in time—he  _must_  have.

“Okay…? And?”

“It is… a long story. I have a hard time choosing where to start,” Castiel says, stalling for time as he collects his thoughts. This woman could be a demon, though that remains unlikely. It is even less likely that she is another type of supernatural creature, but Castiel feels strangely wary of her.

( _Wrong_ )

“It’s fine, take your time,” Alana says in the meantime. “We’ve got at least a day or two on the road, so you have plenty of it.”

“I used to work with the friend whose home I’m trying to reach. His name is Sam,” Castiel says, remembering that he is, because of his stupidity, “Dean” to this woman. “We were in the business of fixing things. Contractors,” he says. “But we had a… a falling-out, if you will, and I left.”

Here Castiel pauses, but Alana says nothing, giving him his promised time.

“I drifted around for some time and ended up working at a towing company owned by a man named Mal Creese. He called it Creese Tow,” Castiel says, rushing his words together a little at the end and monitoring Alana’s reaction.

But she doesn’t flinch at all. Instead, she looks over at Castiel, and he resists the urge to tell her to keep her eyes on the road, because he’s mortal now and can definitely die in a car accident.

“Why would you work at a towing company of all places?” she asks, and he can be certain, then, that she’s not a demon. What is it that’s wrong with her, then?

“It was a job,” Castiel says, shrugging. “As I said, I drifted.”

“No family?”

“No,” Castiel replies. “I was alone.”

“Shame,” Alana says quietly. “Family is everything. I have a little sister, y’know? I’m actually going to Lawrence to meet up with her.”

Something clicks into place (Dean), some niggling thought that Castiel couldn’t really pin down earlier.

“I uh,” Alana says, smiling a little (loving, caring, Dean,  _wrong_ ), “I haven’t seen her in two years. She ran away from home, kept her distance because she was worried that I’d tell the folks, but hell, all I ever wanted was for her to be happy. After I got over how pissed I was at her running away in the first place, that is.”

Oh, no.

(I want you to live this new life to the fullest)

Then Alana’s laughing, a little bit uncomfortably. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to drop all that in your lap. I guess I’m just… I’m excited to be seeing her.”

(Find a wife. Make babies.)

All of Heaven knows of Castiel’s regard for Dean. Alana has sandy hair, strong features, and large eyes that Castiel is willing to bet are green, flecked with gold.

“It’s all right. I think I can understand,” Castiel says, perhaps a beat late, but he does understand. He knows all-too-clearly why Alana is opening up to him, why she’s showing kindness to him. Metatron is pulling strings, orchestrating this.

(And when you die and your soul comes to Heaven, find me.)

“Yeah? You excited to get back to your old business partner?”

“Very,” Castiel replies. True, he is eager to get back to Sam and Dean, but he is equally eager to return to Heaven and give Metatron a piece of his mind.

(Tell me your story.)

If Castiel has his way, he’ll be telling a story, all right, but it won’t be the one Metatron wants to hear.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dude. Has anyone told you that you’re awesome?"

It’s unnerving how similar Alana’s mannerisms are to Dean’s, Castiel thinks as the woman slides into the driver’s seat on his left.

"How’d you know to get pie?"

"Pie was always Dean’s favorite, too."

Alana shoots Castiel a sideways glance, practically oozing skepticism, and Castiel almost smacks himself on the forehead, because he is supposed to be “Dean" right now.

(Idiocy, fallibility, humanity.  _Wrong._ )

"Okay, so are we just talking in the third person now? Or was I right, and your name isn’t really Dean," Alana says.

"Dean is the friend I told you about," Castiel admits a little sheepishly.

Alana smiles. “Hey, it’s cool. I figured you weren’t a Dean." As she rummages through the plastic bag, she adds, “And besides, pie  _and_  beef jerky? I could marry you, man."

The offer, playful as it is, gets a full-body shudder from Castiel. Luckily, Alana doesn’t seem to notice, too busy digging out a strip of beef jerky from its package.

"My name is Cas," he offers.

"Hmm," she hums thoughtfully, sticking a piece of jerky in her mouth and fixing her eyes on him. Then she thrusts the bag into Castiel’s lap and starts the car, pulling out of the parking space and driving out of the gas station. “That suits you a lot better," she says through her mouthful.

"I agree," Castiel says—it had been strange, having to answer to his friend’s (comrade, brother, family…?) name.

Alana fiddles with the dials on the radio until she finds a classic rock station. “You should eat," she says, sparing a glance at Castiel.

"I’m not hungry."

Alana frowns at this. “What are you, a pod person? It’s been at least fifteen hours since I picked you up, and I haven’t seen you take a bite outta anything."

(Pod person, alien, not-angel,  _wrong_.)

"Yes, I… I suppose the anxiety is ruining my appetite," Castiel says honestly. He doesn’t feel like he could hold anything down right now anyway.

"Please tell me you at least drank some of your water."

"Yes, I did. Thank you."

Alana shakes her head. “I don’t know how you survived hitchhiking on your own," she says. “Pass me some more jerky. This stuff is the best."

Castiel pulls the package of beef jerky out of the plastic bag and extracts a piece, putting it in her extended hand. She takes a big bite, manning the wheel with one hand. Castiel remembers watching Dean drive in this position, and he closes his eyes because if he has to suffer through one more orchestrated similarity, he might throw himself out of the vehicle.

He’s startled by something hard and rough pressing against and then between his lips. Sputtering, Castiel inadvertently opens his mouth, and the intruder slides right in. Castiel’s eyes go wide as flavor explodes across his tongue, salty and smoky and tangy. (Eating, sleeping, human needs.  _Wrong_.)

Alana laughs then, and he realizes that she’s still holding the beef jerky up, so he takes over for her so that she can put her hand back on the wheel. “You’re supposed to take a bite," she says, clearly amused.

Castiel bites down, and it’s harder than he’d expected to tear a chunk away. Alana snatches the remaining piece and pops it in her mouth. Castiel chews carefully, and to his surprise, more flavor comes out of the tough meat with each bite.

"Looking at you, I’d say you hadn’t ever had beef jerky before," Alana says, and when Castiel looks at her, he sees that she’s watching him with one eyebrow raised.

"I haven’t," he says.

The other eyebrow goes up. “Well hey, first time for everything," she says. “It’s good, isn’t it?"

"Yes, very. You should keep your eyes on the road," Castiel admonishes gently, and Alana huffs a laugh.

"Yeah. Thanks, Mom," she scoffs.

Castiel is briefly reminded of wavy, blond hair, a wide smile, and a pair of light brown eyes, gazing up at him over a row of shot glasses.

(Jo, Hell hounds, Castiel should have been there. Late, always too late. Wrong, always  _wrong._ )

"You okay, Cas?" Alana asks.

"Yes, I’m fine." (Lies, more lies.)

(Because that’s how you become president.)

"Look, it’s not really my place to pry, but you don’t look fine."

Castiel forces a smile. “Perhaps the hunger is kicking in," he says, reaching into the package to get another piece of jerky.

Alana’s hand rests over his, stopping him, and she says, looking out at the road instead of at him, “If you need to talk to someone, I’m here. It’s not as though we’re going to be together for all that long, anyway. After I drop you off, we’ll never see each other again. So you can… y’know, unload."

"Thank you, but I’m fine," Castiel insists. (Emotions, talking about them, not-Dean.) The dissimilarity helps a little.

"Okay, then," Alana says, putting her hand back on the steering wheel.

Castiel gets another piece of jerky out and offers it to Alana, but she only shakes her head, so he takes a bite himself. He thinks he is beginning to understand the appeal of eating—the flavor of this jerky really is excellent.

"How much longer do you think it will take to get to Lebanon?" he asks.

"Well, let’s see.. we just passed through Sheridan, so I’d estimate another.. I don’t know, ten or eleven hours on the road? Are you in a hurry to get there?"

"You could say that," Castiel replies.

"I guess if we don’t stop, we can get there by midnight tonight," Alana says.

Castiel wants that, wants it more than anything (Dean, Dean,  _Dean_ ), but he doesn’t want to take advantage of her kindness. “It’s all right if we arrive tomorrow," he says.

"Okay, great. Because I swear, the Biggerson’s in Cheyenne is the best, and I think I’d die a little inside if we didn’t stop there and grab bacon cheeseburgers."

(Burned-out eyes, tablet, Naomi, Metatron. Thousands of falling brothers. All Castiel’s fault, all  _wrong_.)

"Yes, I would like that very much," Castiel says, pretending not to see the flicker of concern that crosses over Alana’s face at his hesitance.

(Lies, more lies.)

(Wrong.)


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel lies in bed, unable to sleep. He showered first tonight, and now he’s taking the opportunity to go to bed while she’s still in the shower.

Metatron’s hand in all of this became more obvious today. During dinner, Alana nudged Castiel’s foot under the table more than once, and she suggested going for drinks after they’d finished eating. Hoping to avoid her advances, Castiel claimed that he was tired so that they could return to the motel room and sleep.

And now, here he is, huddled underneath the covers and trying his best to fall asleep. It’s far more difficult than humans make it seem—Castiel only drifted off for half an hour last night, and losing even that small amount of time had felt strange and terrible.

(Can’t do anything right, failed as an angel, failing as a human.)

He hears the shower turn off and sighs. He could always feign sleep—he’s watched Dean enough that he knows what humans look like when they’re sleeping.

Castiel thinks of Dean, thinks of the new home that he and Sam seem to have made their own, and he hopes they’re all right. Alana had offered to let him use her cell phone earlier today, but he’d declined, saying that his friend knew it would take some time before Castiel arrived, and if he arrived early, he could surprise him. (Lies, always lying.)

In actuality, Castiel does not know what Dean’s reaction will be, and it’d be best to do this in person, without a stranger by his side. So though Castiel aches to hear Dean’s voice, he settles for waiting.

And then it occurs to him that he will never hear Dean’s prayers again, that they’ve lost that connection irrevocably, and the ache in his chest can’t be ignored.

Is it bad (terrible, sacrilegious,  _wrong_ ) that Castiel mourns this loss just as much as he mourns the falls of all his brethren?

A hand rests on Castiel’s shoulder then, and, startled, his eyes snap open—he hadn’t even noticed the hair dryer turning off.

"Cas, what’s wrong?" Alana asks.

"Nothing," Castiel says automatically. (Still lying.)

"You’re…" Alana starts, but her voice trails off, and her hand comes toward Castiel’s face. He watches the hand until it’s too close to be clear, and his eyes flutter closed. Her fingers brush over his cheek, and when she pulls back, Castiel opens his eyes again and sees that her fingers are wet.

Tears?

"It’s nothing," Castiel insists.

"Nightmare?" Alana says quietly, even as Castiel turns away from her onto his other side.

"I don’t want to discuss it. I’m sorry," Castiel says.

It’s silent for a moment, and then the bed dips, and Castiel tenses up as Alana slides in behind him.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Well the original plan was to show you a good time tonight, but I think you need this more," Alana replies, coming in close and putting an arm around Castiel’s middle.

Has Castiel seemed receptive to her advances? Or is this acceptable behavior between strangers? Castiel knows that Dean has bedded a fair share of women with whom he was not familiar.

Somehow, this seems more intimate than sex.

"You can relax," Alana says quietly. “I won’t take advantage of you in your sleep, I promise."

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but her hand has slipped upward, rubbing his chest in small circles, and it  _is_  comforting.

(Gentle, caretaker, Dean.)

He finds himself relaxing into her embrace despite his objections, and she starts humming a melody that Castiel does not know. His eyelids gradually grow heavier and heavier.

* * *

Castiel wakes on his back, and he feels—refreshed. Like he will survive, like he will make it to the Winchesters in one piece, and they’ll take him in without hesitation. But then he remembers his brothers, remembers that they are lost in this world, that they have no Winchesters to look after them, and sorrow rears its ugly head.

His chest feels peculiarly tight, but he soon realizes that it is a physical discomfort more than an emotional one—Alana’s head is pillowed on his chest, and her left hand is clutching the material of his shirt over his shoulder.

"Pam," she says, voice pained, and Castiel tries shaking her shoulder to rouse her, but she only gets more tense. “Pam, please don’t—"

"Alana, you are dreaming," Castiel says, giving her another shake.

“ _Pam_ —"

(Pam. Not-Sam.)

(Alana. Not-Dean.)

Alana jerks awake, head whipping up, and her eyes are wild until they find Castiel’s. She blinks a few times as she catches her breath, and Castiel thinks he catches a hint of tears before she turns her face away. He isn’t sure what exactly he should do now, so he pats her back a few times and hopes the gesture will suffice.

"I—I’m sorry," she says. “I stayed to try to make you feel better, but now you’re trying to comfort me."

"It’s all right. You did help," Castiel says, because with her help, he actually slept through the entire night, and it didn’t feel like he lost time. He likes to think that Dean would try to help him too, though probably not by the same means. (But she’s not Dean.)

Alana lingers in bed for another minute before getting up, twisting her hair up into a tight bun as she walks toward the bathroom. “You want anything in particular for breakfast?" she asks.

(Deflecting, Dean. Not-Dean.)

"I’ll have whatever you’re having," Castiel says, sitting up in bed.

"Okay, then," Alana says. “I hope you like pancakes, because I know this place where—"

The door bangs open, and Castiel and Alana both turn in that direction. Castiel is unarmed, and he hates that. In the doorway is a young woman with long, dark hair and—

"Pam?" Alana says.

The woman smiles, and Castiel knows, (sulfur, smoke, evil)  _knows_ , that she is possessed.

"Stay back, Alana," Castiel says quickly, leaping off the bed and putting himself between Alana and the newcomer.

"But that’s my sister," Alana says, and Castiel can practically see the perplexed expression on her face, even though he hardly knows her well enough for that.

"I don’t think she is anymore," Castiel says.

The woman blinks then, and sure enough, her eyes flip to black and back. Behind Castiel, Alana inhales sharply.

"Listen to the angel,  _dear_  sister," the demon says.

"Angel?"

The demon widens her eyes in mock surprise and looks at Castiel. “Oh honey, have you been lying to your friend here?" Without giving Castiel time to answer, she continues, “You’ve been traveling with an angel—or rather, an ex-angel. I don’t smell his Grace on him."

"Who are you, and what you do want from me?" Castiel demands.

"Well, rumor has it you are a friend of the Winchesters’." The demon smiles wickedly. “I want you to take me to them."

(Dean, Sam, family,  _never_.)

"No."

"Oh, surprise, surprise. I hadn’t expected that response at all," the demon says, rolling her eyes. “Look here. Once upon a time, when you were all powered up, maybe you could stand against me, but those days are gone. You have no way to win, you poor, pretty thing, and it’d be best for all of us if you just came quietly."

A hand wraps around Castiel’s, and he only barely stops himself from jumping. “Cas, what’s going on?" Alana asks, low and worried. “What’s happened to Pam?"

"Pam’s dead," the demon says, shrugging her shoulders. “Sorry, darling, but you know what they say. You gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet. Now tell me, Castiel, are you going to come with me, or am I going to have to make you?"

"I—"

Castiel doesn’t get any farther before Alana yanks him to the side. Startled, he hits the wall, and as he does, he hears gunshots. He looks over to see that the demon has been hit in the chest with a few shotgun shells.

The demon looks down at the hits she’s taken, and then she looks back up again, one corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Cute."

(Hunter, Dean, not-Dean.)

Castiel looks over at Alana and sees that she’s backing away, toward the bathroom, unloaded shotgun still in her arms. The demon advances, but when she gets about a foot away from Alana, she freezes.

"Of course," the demon says.

"Devil’s trap," Alana says.

"Yes, yes, it certainly is not my first rodeo, darling. So go ahead. Do whatever it is you’re going to do. Exorcise me."

"Not so fast. I want to know why you’re after Cas, and I want to know what you’ve done to my sister."

The demon shrugs. “She’s dead. I thought she looked pretty, so I took her meatsuit. Squeezed her right out of it. But you know what? I can bring her back. I can give you back your sister and find myself a new meatsuit, if you just hand Castiel over to me."

"What—you think I’m gonna make a deal with you?" Alana says incredulously. (Deal, crossroads, Crowley, Sam. Is Sam all right?)

"For your dear sister’s life? I think you’d do anything."

Alana glances over at Castiel, and he looks back, unflinching. Alana has no control over him, so this is not a deal she could really make, anyway.

"Come on, now, Alana," the demon says. “He’s been lying to you since the moment you met."

"Yes, but I’ve been lying to him, too," Alana says, eyes flicking back to the demon. (Surprise, gratitude—no,  _stop_.) “And you know what, I know better than to make deals with you. And one more thing I know about demons? They lie."

"You shot her twice in the chest."

"With rock salt. She’s tough—she’ll be fine."

Before the demon can say more, Alana starts to recite the first words for an exorcism.

"Oh, you little bitch. You’re gonna get what’s comin’ for you," the demon grates out, but Alana just continues reciting, quick and precise.

And then black smoke is pouring out of the demon’s mouth, spiraling up to the ceiling and traveling through it. The girl—Pam—collapses to the ground, and Alana rushes over to her, shotgun discarded without a second thought.

"Pam. Pam!" Alana says, grasping her sister’s shoulders and shaking them. “Pam, hey, you have to wake up."

"Don’t shake her so much," Castiel says.

Alana’s eyes flick up to rest on Castiel, and she asks, “Was it true, what the demon said? You are—or were—an angel?"

"Demons lie."

"But she wasn’t lying about this, was she?"

Castiel looks down. “No."

"What does that even—no. No, we’re going to talk about this later. Pam?" she says, giving her sister another shake.

Then Pam groans, and the relief on Alana’s face is—(not-Dean, not-Dean,  _not_ -Dean.)

"Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay, Pam. It’s me."

"Alana?" Pam asks weakly, and Alana nods rapidly. “You  _shot_  me."

"Knew you could take it," Alana says. “We need to get outta here. Don’t know if that demon had any friends with it… Cas, give me a hand?"

Castiel goes over and helps to lift Pam up onto her feet.

"You got her okay?" Alana asks, and Castiel nods.

He supports Pam out of the motel room as Alana gathers her things—Castiel doesn’t actually have any possessions with him, and when Alana had asked about a change of clothing, he’d said that he could make do until they reached his friend’s place.

Outside, Alana unlocks the car doors before going to set her things in the trunk, and Castiel helps Pam into the backseat of the car. She lies down, bending her legs and shifting a little to get comfortable.

Castiel closes that door and stands beside the car, because he isn’t sure if he’s still welcome, but when Alana gives him a questioning look and gestures toward the car, he opens the door and slides into the front passenger seat.

"So, Sam and Dean Winchester really are still around," Alana says as she starts the car. “Do you believe it, Pam?"

"Sure," Pam says from the backseat. “They put a stop to the apocalypse, so if any hunters were alive in this day and age, it’d be them." After a pause, she says, “Y’know, that was ridiculously rude of you. The first time we’d seen each other in how many years? And you shoot me in the chest."

"Oh come on, Pam, they were salt-filled shells. Practically a love tap."

"Oh, yeah. I’m really feelin’ the love."

"Quit your whining," Alana says. “Cas, that meteor shower, all those lights coming down to Earth the night that I found you.. Were you—were you one of them?"

Castiel shakes his head. “No, I—I’d already fallen. Those were my brothers," he says, and the pain and the guilt, ever-present but buried studiously beneath the surface, rise up again. (Failed, failed, failed.)

"And I’d been hoping that the demon was just delusional," Pam says. “So angels are real, and they fell. Now what?"

"Well, whatever it is, we’ll figure it out," Alana says. “We’ll get you to the Winchesters, and we’ll do what we can to help."

"Thank you," Castiel says quietly.

Alana shrugs one shoulder, eyes on the road. “Hey, what are friends for?"

Castiel looks out the window and tries his best to stop comparing her to Dean. She just happens to be a hunter who cares very much about her little sister and shares a few physical characteristics with Dean.

Castiel will not be duped so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not written within 50 minutes due to interruptions


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last installment, for now. Hopefully I'll be updating again in the near future. Thanks for reading!

When they stop for gas, Castiel stays by the car to operate the pump—he’d learned by watching Alana do it yesterday—while Alana takes Pam into the bathroom to soothe her wounds a bit. It takes only about ten minutes, and then they’re back on the road again, this time with Castiel in the back seat.

Pam and Alana squabble over the music, and Castiel feels his attention drifting away, uninterested.

Some time later, he wakes up and finds that he’s slumped to the side, curled up on the bench seat, and he’s about to sit up when he hears the women talking.

"Pam, would you just shut up?" Alana is saying.

"No! No, explain this to me. Why would you pick him up, hmm? He must’ve looked pretty shady, standing by the side of the road in the middle of the woods," Pam replies.

"I don’t know why I picked him up, okay? I just—I just knew that he wouldn’t hurt me."

There’s a brief silence, and Castiel’s mind supplies Sam’s incredulous expression. (No, not the same. Not the Winchesters.)

"Okay, so you basically just decided to trust a guy because he was pretty. Wow, Alana. Wow."

"Wha—dude, I wouldn’t. That wasn’t—"

"That was  _totally_  the reason why!" Pam interrupts. “You’ve got the hots for little Mr. Angel in the backseat. Oh, Jesus."

(Metatron’s work. It must be.)

"If you don’t shut up right now, I’m going to stop this car and throw you out of it," Alana says.

"Yeah. Right," Pam scoffs. “Did you even run checks on him?"

"Of course I did. I’m not an idiot," Alana replies.

"Oh my god, you totally didn’t," Pam says just as Castiel begins to wonder how he could have missed that. “You’ve got it  _bad_ , sister."

"And you are gonna shut the hell up."

Before Pam can answer, the volume of the radio is turned up to a ridiculously loud level, and Castiel shoots up in his seat, startled.

"Oh, shit!" Alana curses, fumbling with the knob to turn the volume back down to a more tolerable level. “Sorry, Cas. Sorry."

"It’s fine," Castiel says, blinking a few times and rubbing at his ears to see what will happen when he does so. It doesn’t help the ringing go away, but he is certain that it will fade eventually. Hopefully.

(We’re making it up as we go. Words spoken so long ago, still true now.)

* * *

About half an hour from Lebanon, Castiel decides to borrow Alana’s phone after all, sending a text with a time and the name of a local bar to Dean, because he doesn’t feel he has the right to reveal the Winchesters’ hiding place to strangers.

_Who is this?_  is Dean’s response, and Castiel just answers,  _Please come_.

Alana doesn’t actually look at the texts until forty minutes have passed, the last ten spent waiting in the diner, and when she does, she asks, “Are you sure he’ll actually show up? You were pretty friggin’ cryptic."

"He’ll come," Castiel says.

(Faith. Foolishness.  _I will always come when you call_. But will Dean come when Castiel calls?)

Another twenty minutes pass, and Alana and Pam seem ready to leave, but the door swings open then, and Castiel promptly loses his breath.

"Cas?" Alana says quietly, having noticed the change in his demeanor, but Castiel can’t respond, doesn’t have the time or attention for it when Dean is standing right there, just inside the doorway, looking around with suspicious eyes.

Castiel approaches slowly, from the side, because he expects Dean to be skeptical. He expects Dean to be ready with holy water and salt and iron and silver, and if he comes on too quick, bystanders could be hurt.

Better to go slow, not surprise Dean, and convince him to leave the bar before running his tests. (Always so careful, meticulous and smart. Dean.)

So when Dean’s eyes land on Castiel and his face lights up, Castiel is taken aback. He is even more startled when Dean pushes his way past the few people separating him from Castiel and throws his arms around Castiel, squeezing him hard.

"Jesus, Cas," is all he says, and somehow, it’s enough.

(Gunmetal, blood, leather,  _Dean_.)

"I’m—" Castiel stops himself on the cusp of another apology, because it’s occurred to him that Dean doesn’t like it when he apologizes. So he waits for Dean to back away from him.

It takes longer than it did in Purgatory. ( _Cas, buddy, I need you_. Dean never knew who needed whom in their relationship. Castiel has always needed Dean, but Dean could go on without Castiel.)

Dean finally backs off, looking at Castiel’s face as though he expects something to be different, and Castiel knows he needs to say something, but he just doesn’t have the words yet. And then—

"Hi," a female voice says from Castiel’s right, and no, that voice doesn’t belong here, not anywhere near Dean, “you must be Winchester the elder."

(Paradox. How can Dean meet Dean? No, not-Dean.)

"Yeah," Dean says, eyes flitting back and forth between Alana and Castiel. “Who the hell are you?"

"A friend. Name’s Alana. And this is my sister, Pam."

"They helped me," Castiel says. “I was in Montana when my brothers—" he stops speaking then, unable to continue, and Dean—Dean looks sad.

"I know, Cas. I saw them," he says. Glancing around at the bar, he adds, “We should talk about this somewhere else. You girls stayin’ at a motel or something?"

"We were actually kinda hoping to stay with Cas," Pam says, and Castiel is surprised because they hadn’t talked about that. A flash of annoyance crosses Alana’s features, but it passes very quickly. Pam adds, “If that’s not too much trouble."

Dean frowns. “We’d rather not share our location with too many people," he says.

"And we understand," Alana says before Pam can speak up. “We can go to a motel to talk."

"Okay, then. I know a place," Dean says.

"Lead the way," Alana says, and Dean turns and heads for the door. “What the hell, Pam?" Alana mutters as Castiel starts walking away from them, and he suspects that he wasn’t supposed to hear that. He can’t make out Pam’s response, but he doesn’t think it matters, not when Dean is in front of him, leading the way to the Impala.

Alana and Pam walk toward their car, and Castiel feels a strange sense of disappointment at the separation. (But why?) It is squashed as soon as he slides into the front passenger seat of the Impala, so familiar and safe.

And suddenly, he knows just the right words.

So he turns to his left and says, “Dean, I’m home."

Dean stares at him, lips twitching like they want to smile but Dean doesn’t, and he replies, “I know."

Warmth floods Castiel’s chest, because that’s—that’s affection in Dean’s eyes, and he never thought he’d be allowed to have that. But then Castiel aches, because he wishes he could see the beauty of Dean’s soul in this moment. He’ll never see it again.

(Broken, useless, wrong.)

Dean’s hand rests over his, startling him, and his mind flashes back to Alana. (No. Not-Dean.  _Wrong_.)

"Cas, you’re gonna be okay," Dean says.

"I… thank you, Dean."

Dean smiles at Castiel before starting the car, and everything is right, or as right as it can be. Yet Castiel cannot shake the sense that something is strange, off, like a train that’s gone partially off-the-rails but is still managing to follow the tracks, but the ride is bumpy and wrong.

(What’s happening?)


	5. Chapter 5

On the car ride over to the motel, Castiel asks what happened. He’d already guessed that the gates to Hell remained open—Dean wouldn’t give up Sam, not without a fight. Dean tells him that Crowley and Kevin are at the bunker, that Sam’s recuperating but still very weak. They’re at their wits’ end, and does Cas have any ideas?

"I’m sorry, Dean," Castiel says. "I wish I could help, but I was not lying when I said that he was damaged in ways that I couldn’t heal, even as an angel. Now I’m human. Useless." (Wrong.)

"Don’t say that," Dean says fervently, hands tightening on the steering wheel, and Castiel looks away, looks out the window at the passing trees.

"It’s true, isn’t it? Without my powers, I’m just a—"

"Don’t."

Castiel holds his tongue, but he can’t stop his mind from thinking the words.  _A baby in a trench coat_. He’ll have to change, now that he’s human, so he won’t even have the trench coat anymore.

"Look, you’re alive, and you’re—you’re  _here_. Let’s just take it one step at a time, all right?”

Castiel nods mutely.

"Okay. Now you wanna tell me who those two girls were and how you ended up with them?"

Castiel relates the story quickly. Some instinct tells him to leave out the similarities he noticed between Alana and Dean, even though it’d probably be best to tell Dean everything.

It’s Metatron’s scheme, he reminds himself, yet he realizes that some part of himself is reluctant to share Alana with him. What is this feeling? He doesn’t understand it, can’t parse it. There’s something familiar about it ( _Dean_ ), yet it feels… (strange, misplaced, wrong.)

"You trust them, then," Dean says.

"Yes," Castiel responds. "But I felt it would be presumptuous to bring them straight to the bunker."

"Yeah, it would’ve been," Dean agrees, pulling into the parking lot of a motel. He parks the car, and they get out as Alana and Pam park beside them.

"I’ll book a room. You two wait here," Alana says, heading for the lobby.

"Actually, I was thinking I’d rather take Cas home now," Dean says. "If you don’t mind, that is."

"What, you don’t want our help?" Pam asks, frowning.

"There’s strength in numbers," Alana says. Her gaze shifts, appealing to Castiel as she adds, "And we’re friends, right?"

"We are," Castiel finds himself answering before he’s even really thought about it. (What’s happening? Why does it feel so instinctual, so reflexive, to agree with her?)

"We’ll call you if we need your help, then," Dean says, brandishing his phone. "I’ve got your number—I assume it was yours," he adds, pointing at Alana.

She nods, eyes only flitting to Dean for a moment before returning to Castiel, and it’s strange how gratifying it is to be watched by her. (Seen, noticed,  _wanted_. Not needed.)

( _I need you._  But Dean has never wanted Castiel, has he?)

"Hey," Dean says, jolting Castiel out of his thoughts. He looks away from Alana to find Dean watching him with concern. "Get in the car."

"Right," Castiel says. He pulls open the car door, but a hand wraps around his elbow, and he looks back to see—"Alana."

She leans in close ( _Cas, we’ve talked about this. Personal space._ ) and says in a low voice, “You’re gonna be okay, right? He isn’t… isn’t forcing you to do anything—”

"I’m fine," Castiel interrupts. "Thank you for your concern."

"You sure?"

(You’ll call, right? If you get into real trouble.)

"I’m sure."

Alana releases Castiel’s arm with marked reluctance, and he ducks into the car. As they back out of the parking space, Castiel feels a strange heaviness in his chest. Is this physical or psychological?

"What was that all about?" Dean asks.

"I don’t know what you mean."

"What did she say to you?"

"She was only worried for my safety," Castiel replies. Metatron’s interference again. Perhaps it would be prudent to tell Dean.

(I was there. Where were you?)

"Cas, what’s going on? This isn’t—it isn’t normal. Talk to me."

"Metatron cast me from Heaven before the rest of my brethren," Castiel starts.

"Why?"

"It was a spell. Naomi was not lying. The so-called trials Metatron set for me—killing a nephilim, collecting a cupid’s bow—were ingredients for a spell."

"A spell to make the angels fall," Dean says.

"Precisely. I—my Grace was the last piece."

"Okay, but how is this relevant to that—to what’s-her-name?"

"Alana," Castiel says, surprised by how important it is that Dean get her name right. He explains, "Before Metatron cast me out, he asked me to bring him a story of a life lived here, with a wife and children."

"And Alana’s supposed to be your wife?"

"I believe so," Castiel says gravely.

"How could you even tell?" Dean asks.

"She—" Castiel pauses on the cusp of yet another lie, but he honestly doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t think he can lie to Dean.

(Superman going to the dark side.)

"Cas," Dean says.

(When you die and your soul comes to Heaven, find me. Tell me your story.  _No._ )

"She reminded me too much of you," Castiel says, deciding on the truth because if Metatron is orchestrating events, Castiel alone stands little chance of winning. But the Winchesters have exceeded his expectations time and time again. He must have faith.

"What?"

"The angels are very much aware that I am fond of you," Castiel explains. "It stands to reason that Metatron would choose someone bearing similarities to you, if he wanted to attract my attention."

Dean doesn’t respond, and Castiel looks over to see that his companion is tense, eyes fixed pointedly on the road ahead.

"Are you all right, Dean?"

"Are you saying that Metatron picked a babe version of me because he thought you—you and me—"

"Yes," Castiel says. "It is the only logical conclusion. The similarities between the two of you are… obvious."

Dean stops the car, and Castiel is about to tell him that they can have this conversation just as easily in a moving vehicle when he notices that they have reached their destination.

"Okay, explain to me how that’s obvious," Dean says, making no move to get out of the car.

"You both have a younger sibling who ran away from home. You’re both attractive—" Dean coughs at this, but it’s probably coincidence "—with a preference for beef jerky, fast driving, and pie. Your musical tastes align as well. Shall I continue?"

"No," Dean says, shaking his head. "But I mean, if you’re onto him, then it won’t work, right?"

"That’s hard to say. I’ve felt… strange. As though I do hold some feelings for her," Castiel says, frowning, and it’s like opening up on some truths removes his barriers on all the things he’d intended to keep from Dean, so he says, "She really is similar to you, though I doubt you would hold me to help me sleep."

"Hold you to—wait,  _what?_ ”

Before Castiel can respond, the door to the bunker opens, and Kevin pokes his head out. Exchanging glances, Dean and Castiel silently agree to get out of the car.

"Castiel," Kevin says with a smile. "It really is you. Come in—we could really use your help."

He backs out of the doorway again, and Castiel looks to Dean.

"We’re not finished," Dean says before slamming his car door and stomping into the bunker.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel finds that the state of the bunker is about the same as it was when he last visited, when he was still—well. When he wasn’t broken. Useless.

There are changes, of course. Crowley, according to Dean, is locked up in their dungeon, a room that Castiel has yet to visit. He is not eager to meet with the (former?) King of Hell, so he does not mind glossing over that place.

Sam is nowhere to be seen, and Kevin hovers behind Castiel until they reach Sam’s bedroom.

“Cas,” Sam says. He looks pale, but he seems to be breathing fine on his own. His eyes are bloodshot. “Dean said it might be you, but we didn’t know,” he continues.

“I couldn’t afford to be explicit,” Castiel replies. “Metatron is—I believe he may be monitoring my progress.”

“Progress?” Sam repeats.

“We’re not discussing that right now,” Dean says, cutting Castiel off before he can explain.

Ah, yes. Of course he’d like to spare Sam the details.

( _You think maybe you could… walk me through?_  Of course Castiel had done so. Of course he’d been wrong. He’s always been wrong, hasn’t he?)

“Cas, what’s going on?” Sam asks, turning imploring eyes on Castiel.

“It is… personal,” Castiel tries.

“Could you take a look at him?” Kevin asks. “Just to uh, to see what’s wrong?”

Castiel stops himself short of the truth. Sam is dying, but Dean would never want Sam to hear that outright. What is he supposed to do in this situation? He is unsure what would be most appropriate.

“Yes,” Castiel says, stepping into the room hesitantly.

Dean and Kevin follow him inside. Castiel is unsure where to begin, but the three humans in the room ( _other_  humans—Castiel is human himself, now) don’t know any better than he does, so perhaps he can fool them.

“There is nothing I can do for him at this point,” Castiel says, and it’s not difficult to say because it’s the truth. “I will attempt to find a solution.”

Kevin’s face falls. “Back to the tablet for me, then.”

“Hey, wait,” Sam says. “Talk to me? Just for a while.”

Kevin nods, and Dean herds Castiel out of the room. After the door is closed and they are back outside in what appears to be a large library, Dean stops Castiel and looks at him expectantly.

“Your brother is dying. I’m sorry, Dean.”

“And you can’t do anything about it,” Dean infers.

“Not at present. I’ve told you this already. I wish I could be of more use to you, but—”

“Damn it, Cas, will you stop worrying about being useless already?”

(Nobody cares that you’re broken, Cas!)

Castiel backs up a step, surprised by the unpleasant feeling in his chest at Dean’s outburst. “I seem to have offended you,” he says calmly.

“Okay, wait. Cas—”

“I’d like to take a shower now. If you could point me in the right direction, I’ll leave you alone.”

A muscle twitches in Dean’s jaw, and then he turns and walks away. Castiel follows him to a bathroom, where Dean tells him to wait. A few minutes later, he returns with a towel and some clothing.

“Thank you,” Castiel says before shutting the door in his face. It isn’t as satisfying as he thought it’d be.

* * *

The first two days at the bunker are surprisingly quiet.

Castiel spends his time helping Kevin with his translations, as three-to-four-word phrases of the tablet appear to translate into different languages, and it is difficult to identify these languages and translate the stretches of meaning into English.

Castiel does not envy the task that has been set upon Kevin’s shoulders.

Dean comes in and out, and Castiel tries his best not to pay attention to his comings and goings. Nevertheless, he does pick up on the fact that Dean does all of the cooking, coming in at mealtimes to provide nourishment for Kevin—and Castiel, of course. Castiel is unaware what he does when he isn’t cooking, though.

About halfway through the first day, Castiel starts to feel like something is missing. The feeling only grows worse over the course of the next day an a half.

By the third morning, Castiel has an ache in his chest, a sensation he has only felt on a handful of occasions in the past, one that he’s always associated with the loss of something he finds dear.

(Dammit, Cas! We can fix this!)

(Dean, it’s  _not_  broken!)

He thinks he knows why, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. Surely if he stays out of contact with Alana, Metatron’s plan—whatever it may be—will not come to fruition.

Yet he  _wants_.

He wants to see her again. Wants to be beside her, if only to speak to her for a while. It’s maddening, and Castiel finds himself unable to concentrate when he goes to help Kevin. The prophet announces shortly after lunch that day that Castiel is hindering more than he is helping and banishes him from the study.

Castiel stays in the bedroom Dean allocated to him and tries his best not to think about long, brown-blond locks. About freckles dusted across a familiar face. About green eyes, sparkling in the light.

A knock on the door pulls him out of his thoughts, and he sees Dean standing in the doorway, looking decidedly unhappy. Castiel cannot think of anything he’s done to provoke this, so he frowns and gets to his feet.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Uh, yeah. Phone. For you,” Dean says, holding out his cell phone.

_Alana_. Castiel ignores the strange feeling in his chest (pleasure, relief, delight) and takes the phone. “Hello,” he says.

“Cas?”

It is Alana’s voice, but she sounds distressed. Castiel’s gut clenches with worry. It’s unpleasant. (Misplaced.)

(I always come when you call.)

“Yes, it’s me,” he says, noting that his voice has gone softer. Why would it do that?

“Cas, it’s Pam.”

“What is it?” Castiel asks. “What’s happened?”

Dean is frowning at him, standing right in front of him. Castiel hadn’t noticed him stepping closer.

“They’ve got Pam. I don’t know where they took her, I don’t—”

“Alana, calm down,” Castiel says, keeping his voice steady. “Who has Pam?”

Another voice comes on the line, smooth and smug, and Castiel’s mouth tastes sour. “Hello, angel.”

“Who are you?” he demands.

“Oh, just a friend of a friend. Dean’s old friend, in fact. Say hi to him for me, by the way.”

“How can I pass on your greeting if I don’t know who you are?” Castiel reasons.

“They call me Abaddon,” she says.

“You’re a Knight of Hell,” Castiel says, recognizing the name. “You’re supposed to be dead. The archangels—”

Dean snatches the phone from him. “Abaddon?”

Castiel frowns at him but says nothing. A moment later, Dean passes the phone back to Castiel, jaw tight.

“Is this Cas, now?”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

“Good. Now, I want you to come meet me. Take down this address and get there in one hour, or I start taking pretty girl’s fingers off, one inch at a time.”

* * *

“You’re not going.”

Castiel pushes past Dean, shoving the slip of paper into his pocket as he does. “The hell I’m not,” he says.

“This is Metatron’s plan, Cas! He’s manipulating you, like he was the last time,” Dean insists.

“Alana is innocent,” Castiel says. “If you’re the still the same man I raised from Hell, you’ll let me save her.”

“Cas—”

“Besides,” Castiel continues, “Abaddon wouldn’t be ordered around by Metatron. She’s a Knight of Hell.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Dean says, getting in front of Castiel and grabbing his shoulders to keep him in place. “Look, if Metatron wants you to end up with what’s-her-name, then he’ll be looking after her, won’t he? I’ll bet the only reason he let her get into trouble in the first place was because he wanted you to ride in to the rescue.”

(Why is he trying to stop him? Castiel only wants to save him. Dean is in danger.)

Castiel pushes Dean’s arms out of the way. “You can’t just keep me here. An innocent person is being held hostage by a demon because of me, and—”

“Fine!” Dean says, grabbing onto Castiel’s wrist. “Fine, I’ll let you go.”

“Then let go,” Castiel says, looking pointedly down at the hand that is still tightly wrapped around his wrist, keeping him here.

“No. I’m coming with. You’ll need a ride, anyway.”

Castiel just leaves the bunker and goes to wait by the car. Dean emerges a moment later with his jacket and opens the doors for them to get in.

“It’s a goddamn trap, Cas,” Dean says as he puts the car in reverse and backs out onto the street.

(Hell was a trap, too. Hell was suicide. Yet Castiel saved Dean then, hadn’t he? He can save him again now.)

“When have we ever let that stop us?” Castiel responds.

Surprisingly, Dean cracks a grin at him before changing gears and stepping on the gas. It should make Castiel happier that his partner is confident, but all he feels is a dull sense of horror.

He’s not going to save Dean; he’s going to save Alana. Dean is right next to him. (But Dean is being held hostage. How can he be here?)

_No._  Castiel takes a good, long look at the man sitting to his left.  _This_  is Dean, he reminds himself.  _This_  is the human he fell for. He cannot— _will_  not—be replaced.

Castiel won’t let it happen.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, sorry about the delay. I'm trying to get to a place where I'm updating all my fics on a regular basis, and I think I'm just about there. Except I'm gonna start working on pinkverse again in about two weeks, which means the rest of these fics are just gonna go to shit after that... but in the meantime, enjoy the (hopefully) more regular updates to come!

They pull up outside an old warehouse, and Castiel wonders when villains will come up with something new—haven’t warehouses been overdone already? He starts to get out of the car, but Dean grabs his arm before he can step out.

“Dude, we’re not just gonna go barging in there,” he says. “We need a plan.”

Castiel holds back a sigh. “You do realize that things never go according to plan. We may as well just go—Alana is in danger.”

“Why do you care about her so goddamn much?” Dean demands.

(Because it is imperative that Castiel save Dean; isn’t that much obvious?)

(I’m doing this for you, Dean. I’m doing this because of you.)

“That’s irrelevant,” Castiel says. (Lies.)

He wrenches his arm out of Dean’s grasp and gets out of the car, stalking toward the building at a brisk pace. Behind him, Dean curses and follows, jogging to catch up with him.

“You sure you don’t wanna talk about this first?” Dean asks as they reach the door.

“I’m sure,” Castiel replies, and pushes the door open.

The interior is dim, quiet, and a little damp as well—Castiel can hear something dripping in the distance. But his eyes focus on a chair in the center of the room, and he sees that Alana is tied up there, a gag in her mouth. She shakes her head furiously as Castiel draws near, and Dean grabs onto his elbow, holding him back.

“Trap,” Dean hisses, as though Castiel needs the reminder.

“Yes, it _is_ a trap,” a female voice says, and Castiel recognizes it as belonging to Abaddon. He’ll always remember the voice of anyone who threatens Dean. (Not-Dean.) “Not a trap I expected the two of you to fall for, though,” she continues, stepping into Castiel’s view on his right.

“Yeah well, you know us. We’re just such softhearted heroes,” Dean says mockingly.

“Apparently,” Abaddon says, chuckling.

“What do you want?” Castiel asks, watching as the demon walks over to Alana and places a hand on her brown-blond hair.

“Hmm, let me think about it.”

“How ‘bout I trap you in that skull again, hmm? I’ve got more bullets where that one came from,” Dean threatens.

“Oh, you were lucky, last time. And you had to sacrifice your dear, old grandfather to even make the shot. So honey, you can try me anytime,” Abaddon says, winking at Dean. “But I must warn you—if you pull a gun on me today, I’ll gut this bitch before you can pull the trigger.”

Castiel tenses, unable to help it, and he can tell that Abaddon sees it.

“I take it the angel with the broken wings is the reason why you’re here. After all, you’ve always been able to sacrifice other people’s lives if it means your family stays safe, haven’t you, Dean?”

“Just tell me what you want,” Castiel demands before Dean can say anything.

“I want… you,” Abaddon says, smiling.

Castiel blinks. What does this mean? “I’m not an angel anymore,” he says unnecessarily.

“That doesn’t mean you’re useless,” Abaddon responds. “If you take the bitch’s place, I’ll let her go. She’s useless to me—completely dispensable. But you, on the other hand…”

“No,” Dean growls. “You’re not takin’ Cas.”

“I believe that’s _his_ choice, not yours, cowboy,” Abaddon says.

“I’ll do it,” Castiel says. For Dean, he would lie down upon a bed of nails. For Dean, he would burn alive, over and over again. For Dean, he would travel up to Heaven, down to Hell, or anywhere in between.

“Shit, Cas, are you _crazy?_ ”

For Dean, he would face fates far worse than death without hesitation.

This is no different.

“Excellent,” Abaddon says, beckoning for Castiel to step forward.

“Damn it, Cas, _no_ —”

A hand hooks around Castiel’s arm when he tries to go to the demon, and why, _why_ must there always be an obstacle in his path when he only wants to help Dean? Castiel whirls around, fist raised to punch the person who’s holding him back.

But he’s faced with a pair of startled green eyes, a mouth that’s dropped open just a fraction.

_Dean_. How—

“Cas, what the fuck,” Dean says, and the surprise has gone, replaced by muted anger.

“Are you coming or not?” Abaddon snaps, and Castiel cannot understand.

Dean is _here_ , standing right before him. Dean is—Dean is fine, was safe before Castiel dragged him into danger. Why does he—how is Metatron forcing this conflation of Alana and Dean upon Castiel? How is he insinuating it into his mind?

When Castiel turns to face Abaddon, he sees that her eyes are alight with interest, flicking between Alana and Castiel. Alana looks startled by the turn of events—it seems everyone is surprised by Castiel’s actions, himself included. Is he really so unpredictable?

“Y’know, I thought it’d be an excellent idea to use you as a spark to ignite civil war between the fallen angels,” Abaddon says conversationally, “but this is turning out to be far more entertaining than I’d expected. Oh, who did this to you poor souls?”

“Metatron,” Castiel grinds out. Even now, every cell in his body demands that he go to Alana now to free her from her bonds, because Dean is in danger. But Dean is not Alana, and Alana is not Dean.

Castiel once thought that he was insane, but this, _this_ is true insanity.

“An angel,” Abaddon says with distaste. “Regardless, I’ll have to congratulate him on this stroke of genius. It’s brilliant.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dean says. His hand is still holding onto Castiel, wrapped around his wrist instead of his elbow now, and Castiel is grateful for it, even as he wishes that Dean would remove it so that Castiel could save Alana.

_Alana is not Dean_.

“I’ve never seen anyone fight so hard against the power of a cupid,” Abaddon says. “I might keep the both of you, purely for the entertainment value.”

“Let her go,” Castiel says. “If I go with you, you have to let Dean take her to safety.”

“Cas, you can’t—”

“ _Don’t_ tell me what to do, Dean,” Castiel says sharply.

But Dean’s hand tightens around his wrist, enough that his bones seem to grind together. “You’re not giving yourself up to fucking Abaddon, okay?” he hisses, livid. Alana’s nodding her head, like she agrees with Dean, but of course she would agree with Dean.

(She _is_ Dean.)

( _Isn’t_.)

(Close enough.)

“Ooh, but then I’d lose the joy of watching you struggle,” Abaddon says. “And come to think of it, now that you’re all here, I may as well keep the three of you.”

Dean draws a gun then, and Castiel immediately reaches out to shove the barrel so that it points downward, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it if Dean (not-Dean, Alana) died.

“I’d die before I let you toy with me,” Dean snarls at Abaddon, trying to pull away from Castiel so that he can raise his gun again.

“ _Stop_ that,” Castiel demands. Without thinking about it, he finds himself continuing, “She’ll kill Dean.”

A heavy silence follows his words, and Dean’s eyes go wide, like he’s worried about Castiel’s sanity. It’s about time he realized the gravity of the situation.

“Oh, my,” Abaddon says, and when Castiel looks over at her, he sees that she’s petting Alana’s hair.

Castiel wants to bite her hand off.

“How does it feel, Dean? To know an angel loves you so much that when he’s struck by cupid’s arrow, the intended object of his love and desire _becomes_ you, in his mind?”

Dean makes a strangled sound but says nothing.

This is too much.

It’s impossible for Alana to have become Dean. Has Castiel been imagining all of their similarities? He can’t have been—the beef jerky, the musical taste, the younger sibling who ran away from home—

Abaddon is speaking again, but her words are blurred together.

Castiel’s thoughts become incoherent, hazy. The world tilts, then goes dark.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got a bit of Dean's perspective here, because Cas knocked out earlier. It's unlikely we'll be back in Dean's head, but I guess you never know.

Cas has gone crazy. It’s obvious, and Dean doesn’t know how to handle the situation.

“How does it feel, Dean?” Abaddon is asking, and Jesus, Dean has no idea how he’s supposed to feel right now other than fucking confused. “To know an angel loves you so much that when he’s struck by cupid’s arrow, the intended object of his love and desire _becomes_ you, in his mind?”

Dean wants her to shut the fuck up, but he chokes on his words, because holy fucking Christ, she’s _right_ , isn’t she? Cas just—just referred to _Alana_ as _Dean_ , for fuck’s sake. What the fuck is he supposed to _do_ with that?

Abaddon’s laughing now, smug as ever, and Dean just wants to put a bullet in her brain.

Hell, he just might.

“So, Castiel, which Dean is more important to you?” she asks, gleeful. “Can you even tell which Dean is the _real_ Dean?”

Dean looks to Cas, because fuck, he’s _gotta_ be able to tell Dean from that goddamn woman, right?

And then Cas is collapsing, falling, and Dean starts dropping with him, trying to catch him before he hits the ground. Abaddon takes a step forward, and then there’s a shout of surprised pain. Dean’s head shoots up in time to see Alana pulling a knife out of Abaddon’s side and starting to bring it down again, this time on her back, because Abaddon is doubled over.

But the demon bitch shoves a hand out, and Alana is thrown across the warehouse, knife flying out of her hand. “Oh, you dirty little bitch,” Abaddon says, taking a step toward the hunter. “Have you forgotten that I’ve still got your dear sister on lockdown?”

Dean lifts his gun while Abaddon is distracted, takes aim, and shoots. Abaddon whips a hand out in his direction, and Dean goes flying backwards, but there’s a huge spray of blood from Abaddon’s head, and she curses colorfully, reaching up to try and pull the bullet out from where it entered—when Dean sits up, he sees that the entry wound is just below her left ear.

Dean gets to his feet and runs toward Abaddon, but he’s too far from her to get there in time because she’s already got her finger up in there, digging for the slug.

Well, at least he bought them some time, right?

“Dean!” Alana barks, and Dean’s startled to see that she’s also on her feet, except that she’s closer to Abaddon, almost right at her side.

So Dean pulls his machete from the inside of his jacket and thrusts it in Alana’s direction, hoping that she’s experienced enough to catch it by the handle while running.

He’s not disappointed.

Alana snatches the blade out of the air and chops Abaddon’s head _and_ hand clean off, and the body hasn’t even hit the floor before she’s hurrying in Dean’s direction. Dean shies out of the way, almost thinking that she’s maybe lost her mind and wants to kill him, too, but instead she drops to her knees at Cas’s side, flinging the machete to the ground and pulling Cas’s head into her lap.

“Fuck, what’s wrong with him?” she says.

Suddenly angry, Dean marches around to Cas’s other side and wrenches Alana’s hand away from where it was resting on Cas’s cheek. “Get away from him,” he says.

“Why should I? I’m the one who just got us out of this mess—you should be thanking me.”

“We’re not out of it yet,” Dean says, pulling Cas away from Alana and lifting him up. God _damn_ , he’s heavy, for a kinda skinny-looking guy.

Alana follows when Dean starts walking toward the exit. “Yeah well, if it weren’t for me, Abaddon would _still_ be mocking Cas right now.”

“And if it weren’t for you, Cas wouldn’t even be in fucking danger, so you just stay the hell away from him!” Dean barks, going over to the Impala. “Go grab Abaddon’s head, before she figures out a way to attach it back on.”

“She can do that?” Alana asks, sounding disgusted.

“You’d be surprised,” Dean says.

He hears her turn around and go back to the warehouse, so he props Cas up against the side of the Impala’s trunk while he works the back door open. Then he sets Cas down inside, careful not to hit his head on anything.

“Goddamn it, Cas,” he mutters, unable to resist running a hand through Cas’s hair. It’s surprisingly soft to the touch.

Dean backs out of the car and shuts the door as Alana emerges from the warehouse with Abaddon’s head. “Did she have any backup with her?” Dean asks.

“Not that I saw, but she’s definitely got Pam squirreled away somewhere,” Alana says, worried. “I don’t know what to do.” Her eyes slant to Cas, curled up in the backseat of the Impala, and then she says, “Look, I get it. Cas is—you and Cas—you’re—”

“Shut up.”

“I get it,” Alana says. “But it’s not like I can help it. If Abaddon wasn’t bullshitting us back there, and I don’t think she was, then Cas and I got whammied by a cupid, which—that wasn’t even a thing that I thought could _happen_. So you can’t blame me. It’s not fair.”

“I wasn’t blaming you,” Dean says defensively.

“ _Sure_ ,” Alana says, rolling her eyes. “Let me come with you, all right? The past two days or so have been fucking _hell_ for me, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure it was because Cas wasn’t around. I’ll bet it’s been the same for him, since we’ve got the same problem. So just—let me stick around until we figure this shit out, and then… and then I guess I’ll leave.”

God, Dean wants to say no. He wants to just leave her here, or maybe take her to someplace where Cas won’t be able to find her again, but damn it, she’s right. Cas was definitely in a funk while he was at the bunker, and Dean’s gut clenches at the memory of how Cas’s eyes lit up when he answered Alana’s call.

“Fine,” Dean says. “But as soon as we’ve got you two fixed, I want you gone.”

“Done. Now, do you have a bag or something so I don’t have to just carry this head around?”

* * *

Castiel wakes slowly, groggily. The surface beneath him and the covers above him are soft, and he frowns, because the last thing he remembers is being in a warehouse, caught between Dean and Dean—

His eyes snap open, and he sees the interior of what looks like a bedroom.

_Dean’s_ bedroom, if he’s not mistaken.

He shifts his gaze to the nightstand on his left, and sure enough, the picture of Dean and Mary is there, propped up against the table lamp.

How did he get back?

How did he get out of there?

What is he doing in Dean’s bed?

“You’re awake,” Dean says, and it’s (eyes, hair, cheekbones, jaw, lips) really Dean.

“Dean,” Castiel answers, voice hoarse.

Dean chuckles, but it’s clearly without humor. “You sure you know who I am?” he asks, approaching the bed slowly. Castiel nods, and Dean sits down on the side of the bed. “Y’know, it’s _me_ , me. Not chick me.”

Castiel nods, swallowing hard. “I am… sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Hey, wasn’t your fault,” Dean cuts him off.

“Is he awake?”

The voice is incongruous, shouldn’t be here, and Castiel squeezes his eyes closed. (Not Dean.)

“What did I say about you not showing up ‘til he was ready?” Dean snaps.

“Well Jesus, sorry for being worried about him,” Alana retorts.

“Just get _out_.”

Dean stands up, and Castiel’s hand shoots out before he can think about it, grasping Dean’s wrist before he can get away.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Alana says.

Castiel hears a few footsteps, followed by the door closing, and then Dean settles back down on the bed, one hand coming up to tug at Castiel’s hand. But he doesn’t want to let Dean go, _can’t_ let Dean go.

“I’m losing my mind,” he says.

“Hey, Cas, no, you’re fine. You’re gonna be just fine. I’ve got Kevin on cupid duty. He’s working on the angel tablet, seeing if he can’t figure something out about how to reverse a cupid’s arrow,” Dean says.

It’s not comforting. “There _is_ no way to reverse the work of a cupid,” Castiel responds. He opens his eyes as he finishes speaking, so he catches the way Dean’s face falls, the way the brightness behind his eyes seems to dim.

“Fuck,” Dean says. “Shit, fuck.”

“It’s all right—”

“No, fuck that, Cas. It’s not all right,” Dean says. “You’re not—you and Alana aren’t _real_ , you got me?”

His jaw clenches, and then he’s pulling his wrist free of Castiel’s hand. Panic starts to rise in Castiel’s chest, but Dean’s only switching a wrist for a hand, a hand that clasps back, holds on tightly to Castiel.

“ _This_ is real,” he says, voice raw. “You’re not—not going out and marrying some chick version of me, because I need you.”

(I’m not leavin’ here without you. Understand?)

“Understand?” Dean finishes, and his tone hasn’t changed one bit from the last time.

Castiel drops his gaze and licks his lips. Swallows. Looks back at Dean—the real Dean. Maybe Dean can never want Castiel, can only need him. Maybe it’s enough. Maybe it’s the same thing.

( _This_ is real.)

“I understand.”


	9. Chapter 9

Dean finally allows Castiel out of the bedroom when it’s time to eat, reluctant about it. Castiel understands his reluctance, understands that he worries about Castiel’s state of mind.

There is plenty of cause to worry, after all. Castiel is fallible now, human, and even aware of Metatron’s influence, he hasn’t been able to shake it.

Alana is nowhere to be seen, and Castiel wonders how Dean convinced her to stay out of sight. He despairs at the part of himself that is disappointed at her absence, evidence that Metatron’s influence is working on him even now.

“Cas, c’mon. Stay with me,” Dean says, setting a bowl down on the table in front of him. It’s soup, and it looks delicious, but Castiel has no appetite.

“Well, Cas was right,” Castiel hears from outside the room, Kevin’s voice only just preceding his entrance into the library. He freezes when he sees Castiel sat down at the table and says, “Oh. Uh…”

“Please, continue,” Castiel says. He is not so delicate that they need to mince words around him.

He was once light and fury, limitless energy.

He could once make the ground quake with every step.

Not now, not anymore. (Powerless, weak, wrong.)

Eyes on Dean instead of Castiel, Kevin reports, “I haven’t found anything on the tablet that refers to cupids. I mean, maybe I missed something, but I figure they weren’t uh, big enough fish to cover. This was sort of like SparkNotes for angels, y’know? Just contains instructions about the most important things.”

“Just because you haven’t found anything doesn’t mean there isn’t a cure,” Dean argues.

“Well sure, but it also means that if there is a cure, we can’t find it,” Kevin says.

“There is no cure,” Castiel says. He needs to kill any hope that Dean has for a cure. There is no way to un-pierce oneself, once struck by Cupid’s arrow.

“What, so you’re just gonna be—” Dean halts, working his jaw, before going on, “—in love with her? For—for however long?”

“Until I die,” Castiel says, eyes dropping to his food.

“No,” Dean says.

“Dean,” Castiel says with a sigh, “you can’t will away the magic of a cupid. We need to face reality.”

Dean huffs. “There’s always a way out. We won against the Devil—hell, we beat both Heaven and Hell. We beat the Leviathans, and we survived them on their own territory. We can beat a fucking cupid, Cas.”

“Not true,” Castiel replies. “Only an archangel can erase the mark that a cupid leaves. There are no angels left, let alone archangels.”

“We’ll find a way. We always find a way, no matter how hopeless things look,” Dean says, and Castiel has to be amazed at Dean’s fierce hope, shining bright even now.

Dean has always been resplendent, breathtaking, but Castiel will never see his soul again.

Dean suddenly smacks a palm against his forehead. “What was I thinking? We have a well of knowledge right at our fingertips,” he says, stomping out of the room.

“What is he talking about?” Castiel asks Kevin, getting to his feet.

“Uh, I’m not sure, but I have a bad feeling he’s talking about Crowley,” Kevin responds.

“Oh, no.”

Working with Crowley will never end well for anyone but Crowley. This Castiel knows only too well.

(It sounds so simple when you say it like that. Where were you when I needed to hear it?)

“Yeah, I feel you,” Kevin says, and turns to lead the way to the dungeons. Castiel follows close on his heels.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, squirrel,” Crowley is saying when Kevin and Castiel come up behind Dean. “Ah,” Crowley says, smiling when he sees them. “More visitors. Is it Christmas already?”

“How do you reverse the work of a cupid?” Dean demands.

Crowley frowns. “You have an ex-angel right behind you. Are you trying to tell me he doesn’t know the answer to that? Or are you so desperate that you’ve come here, hoping that I would have a better answer for you?”

“Dean, come. Let’s go,” Castiel says, reaching out and grabbing Dean’s elbow.

“As it turns out, I do have a solution,” Crowley says.

“He’s lying,” Castiel says immediately.

“Don’t you want to hear me out? Don’t you want that little itch in your heart to go away so that you can love the right human?” Crowley says.

Even as an angel, with all his power, Castiel was completely transparent to Crowley. It stands to reason that he would be just as easy to see through now, but it still raises his hackles.

“Do you want to hear it or not?” Crowley says.

“Or not,” Kevin says. “Let’s go.”

“No,” Dean says, not budging an inch when Castiel pulls his arm. “Talk.”

Crowley smiles. “I have conditions.”

“Dean, he’s lying,” Castiel urges.

It is folly to get in bed with the devil. Doesn’t Dean remember what happened the last time?

(If I’m asking you not to do something, you got to trust me.)

Crowley’s lip curls. “I don’t lie, Cas. Nor do I break promises, when I make them. _I_ have a little something called _integrity_.”

So he still holds a grudge for Castiel’s betrayal. Castiel supposes it’s not surprising.

“Cupids hold no sway over their brethren,” Crowley says. “If you give Cas his wings back, he’ll get his heart back, too.”

Why is he helping? Is he helping at all? Castiel cannot see how Crowley benefits from providing this information, and Crowley never acts unless it is in his own interest. He doesn’t care about winning favor—especially not the Winchesters’ favor.

“Well that isn’t helpful at all,” Dean says. “We got no clue how to get the angels back to Heaven.”

“What, the tablet’s got nothing on it?”

“There’s no way to reverse the spell,” Kevin says. “Not on the tablet, at least.”

Crowley looks smug. “Every spell has a counterspell. It’s a fundamental. Haven’t you learned anything in your hunting years?” Without waiting for a response, he says, “Oh, I forgot—you were too busy killing every witch you came across to actually gather potentially useful information.”

“Quit beating around the bush and talk,” Dean says.

“Well, I can hardly devise a counterspell without knowing the original ingredients,” Crowley says, shrugging. “And I won’t give you anything else unless you give me what I want.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Castiel says.

But Dean ignores him and asks, “What do you want?”

“My freedom.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“My freedom in exchange for Cas’s. I think that’s perfectly fair,” Crowley says. “And I’ll even throw a cherry on top and help you exterminate Abaddon, the infernal bitch.”

“We’ve got her under control,” Dean says.

“Minus the cherry, it’s still a good deal, for you. You’ll have your fully powered angel back,” Crowley says.

“If a deal sounds too good to be true, that’s ‘cause it is,” Dean says.

“Take it or leave it, but I’m the only choice you’ve got.”

“There are other witches we can go to,” Dean says.

“With my knowledge? Please,” Crowley says.

“Dean, it is not worth this,” Castiel says. “Being in love does not hurt me, nor does it hurt Alana.”

Dean spins to face him fully, jaw set, eyes furious.

He doesn’t have to say the words for Castiel to hear them.

(It doesn’t hurt you, maybe, but it hurts _me_.)

Castiel aches.

“It’s not just about you,” Dean says instead. “All the angels could go back to Heaven. Abaddon said she wanted to start a civil war down here. We could send them back to Heaven before that happens.”

“So, squirrel, deal or no deal?” Crowley says.

Castiel licks his lips. “Dean, think about this,” he says, voice thin.

Dean’s eyes don’t leave Castiel’s as he says to Crowley, “Deal.”


	10. Chapter 10

About half an hour later, the three of them are gathered around Sam’s bed, waiting for his verdict.

“It’s crazy, right?” Kevin says. Gesturing at Dean, he says, “Tell him it’s crazy, and that we’re not gonna work with  _Crowley_.”

Dean lifts a hand. “Kev, I hate him just as much as you do, but—”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Kevin interrupts hotly. “He killed my girlfriend,  _and_  my mom. He took  _everything_  from me. Newsflash: I’m not even old enough to drink! I’m supposed to be going to college! This was never supposed to be my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. “I’m sorry that you got sucked into this life, but you did, and whining ain’t gonna change it. I don’t see another way out of this goddamn mess. If you’ve got an ace up your sleeve, please—share it.”

Kevin grinds his teeth together, and Castiel feels the urge to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder. Strange. He rarely ever felt any desire for physical contact in the past.

But he’s human, now. He’s—different. (Wrong.)

“Guys,” Sam says, and his voice is a little hoarse, a little gritty, but it catches everyone’s attention immediately. “I hate to say it, but it’s not the worst idea we could have. Crowley’s—vile, but we can use him. And when we’re through with him, we’ll kill him.”

“You do realize he’ll know what you’re planning, don’t you?” Castiel says. “Crowley is far from simple-minded, Sam. There is a reason why he has survived the two of you for all these years when none of your other nemeses could.”

“We’ll just have to get the drop on him,” Dean says. “We’ll be careful. And hey, if all goes to plan, you’ll have the juice to smite him, won’t you?”

“We don’t even know if Crowley really can reverse the spell,” Kevin says, folding his arms across his chest.

“Look, just—let’s tell him what the ingredients were,” Dean says. “We can tell him that and let him stew over them for a couple o’ days while we do some more research, or something. And if he’s got an answer for us, we’ll talk again then.”

Castiel is surprised that Dean would be patient enough to wait days for this, but he doesn’t argue. “I would very much like to be able to send my brothers back to where they belong,” he admits. “It’s hard to imagine how many of them perished in the fall.”

Kevin huffs out an annoyed breath and takes two steps over to Sam’s bedside, sitting down on the edge of it. “I’m not going.”

“Suit yourself,” Dean says, marching out of the room.

Castiel hesitates only a moment before following. Where Dean goes, Castiel will follow; it is as though this has been written into the very fabric of his nature.

As they walk toward the dungeon, Castiel finally asks, “Dean, where is Alana?”

A half-step ahead of him, Dean stiffens but doesn’t slow his gait. “Gone.”

A lead weight drops to the pit of Castiel’s stomach.

(Dean shouldn’t be out there alone. It’s dangerous, even if he’s fully capable of defending himself.)

“What do you mean, gone?” he asks.

“She wanted to find her sister,” Dean answers.

But he hadn’t been gone long while he went to get food from the kitchen. Castiel hardly thinks they could have had a conversation in that time, but then, he supposes he was a little preoccupied with his thoughts.

“You shouldn’t have just let her leave like that,” Castiel finds himself saying, even though he tries to keep the words in.

“I’m not her keeper, Cas. If she wanted to find her sister, I wasn’t gonna stand in her way.”

“But it’s dangerous. Abaddon’s followers could be looking for her.”

“Yeah, ‘cause demons are known for being  _loyal_ , of all things.”

“You know they can be,” Castiel responds heatedly. “I swear, if anything happens to her—”

“What?” Dean says, taking a quick step to his left and spinning to put him chest to chest with Castiel. “You’ll do what, huh? It’s  _not real_ , Cas. She’s not—not—” Dean struggles with his words, falters, and finally looks down and to the side, giving up. “Fuck.”

The words hit Castiel like a blow to the face.

(Dean, alone. Dean, in danger.)

(No.)

Castiel reins in the anger and the panic, swallows it all down, and finishes Dean’s thought for him. “You.”

Dean’s eyes shoot back up, (green-so-green), inquiring, but he says nothing.

“She’s not you,” Castiel clarifies, quietly.

(Dean. Dean outside the bunker, alone. Dean, in danger, because Castiel wasn’t aware enough to stop him from leaving.)

“She’s  _not you_ ,” Castiel repeats, because maybe if he says it enough times, it’ll stick.

“No. No, she’s not,” Dean confirms fervently.

His arms come up around Castiel, his chin tilting up just slightly, and the bend of his neck has never looked more inviting than it does now. So Castiel ducks his head, presses his forehead into the hollow of Dean’s jaw, and closes his eyes, letting himself be held.

It... feels  _right_.

The world has been spinning off its axis, rolling halfway off the tracks, ever since Castiel crash-landed in a clearing in Montana. But just for a moment, lasting only the length of a breath, everything clicks into place, and he can just  _be_.

He’d never realized just how much he yearned for this.

(Cas, I need you.)

(No, Dean,  _I_  need  _you_. Those were the words he should have said. Instead, he apologized, words too small and too weak, inadequate, wrong.)

It’s too late now, Castiel knows, yet the next words out of his mouth are, “I need you.”

Dean goes very, very still, but he doesn’t remove his arms.

(It already feels like they’re shaped wrong, don’t belong. Not Dean.)

(But it  _is_  Dean.  _This_  is Dean.)

“I thought it fairly obvious before, but I... should have said it,” Castiel continues. It is easier to speak here, unable to see Dean’s face, words absorbed by the collar of Dean’s shirt.

“Cas,” Dean says, voice tight, “we’re gonna fix this, okay? I swear to you, we’re going to fix you.”

Castiel slowly lifts his arms, clings onto Dean’s shoulders, and wishes the world would right itself again, if only for another moment.

(Not-Dean, not-Dean, not-Dean.)

(Dean, outside the bunker, alone, in danger.)

“C’mon,” Dean finally says, pulling away. “Let’s go throw the dog a bone.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Back so soon?”

Crowley is smug. Castiel doesn’t like it.

“Shut your mouth, or I’m walking right back out of here,” Dean snaps.

“Oh, you need me too much to do that,” Crowley answers.

It’ll be better if they just tell him what he needs and be done with him—if he has information for them, good. If not, Castiel won’t have to speak with him again. So before Dean can get riled up, Castiel says, “The first part of the spell required killing a nephilim. The second was taking the bow of a cupid. And the third—”

He stops here, words stuck in his throat.

It is as though he is still strapped in, still held immobile, just lying there as Metatron cuts his grace, his very essence, right out of him, trapping him in this body.

His brothers felt that pain too, were ripped from their homes, unsuspecting.

No—it would have been worse for them. They must’ve felt their wings burning off as they fell.

(His fault. All his fault.)

“What’s the matter, Cas?” Crowley starts, smirking.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean says sharply, turning and stepping in front of Castiel, filling his field of vision. “You okay?” Dean says, voice low.

No. Castiel caused his family so much pain, time and time again. Nothing he does will ever make up for that.

He will never be okay.

At length, Castiel nods. “I’m fine,” he says. (Another lie. Another wrong. But he’s been so wrong for so long that it hardly matters.)

“Go on, then. What’s the last ingredient?” Crowley prods, eyes eager.

He must know something, if he’s so impatient to hear the rest of the spell. Castiel is torn between relief that they might find a solution and disappointment that Crowley’s involvement in the situation might increase.

“My grace,” Castiel says.

“So?” Dean says, turning expectantly toward the demon. “You got anything for us, wizard?”

“Well, give me a moment,” Crowley says.

“You already have something in mind,” Castiel points out, unwilling to wait. “Just tell us what you think you know, and we’ll decide whether it merits your freedom.”

“What’s to stop you from taking the information I give you and leaving me here to rot?” Crowley says.

“Integrity,” Castiel responds with a quirk of his lips, throwing Crowley’s word back at him.

“Don’t start with me, Cas. You’ve got no integrity to speak of,” Crowley says. “I want a promise, from someone who’ll keep it, that you’ll let me leave when I give you the information you need.”

“Not when you give it to us. When it pays off,” Dean says. “When Cas is all angeled up again,  _that’s_  when you get out of those shackles.”

“I’d be more useful to you if I could find the ingredients myself for the counterspell,” Crowley hedges.

Dean shakes his head. “Tell us what you know.”

“I think I’d like to see Kevin again. Where is that boy?”

“He’s got nothing,” Dean says. “C’mon, Cas, we’re leaving.”

Castiel stares at Dean, uncomprehending, because Crowley  _clearly_  knows something if he’s bargaining like this. But he doesn’t protest or struggle when Dean takes his elbow to lead him from the room—Castiel trusts Dean to know what he is doing, especially when dealing with Crowley.

Bluffing, Castiel realizes a beat late. Of course Dean is bluffing.

This is why he navigates dealings with Crowley better than Castiel ever did.

Sure enough, before they can reach the door, Crowley cracks. “All right, fine! Come back here. I s’pose one of you will have to do.”

“One of us will have to do for what?” Dean asks, turning back toward Crowley.

“A promise,” Crowley says. With a small smile, he adds, “A deal.”

“We’re not making a crossroads deal with you, Crowley,” Castiel says, repulsed at the notion.

(I’m an angel, you ass. I don’t have a soul to sell.)

But Castiel is human, now. Or—is he? He must be. Yet he has never had a soul. What is he without his grace? What are the rest of his brethren who fell, graceless?

(Wrong. That’s what he is, what they all are.)

“Oh, you’ll be surprised how much that could accomplish,” Crowley says, confident.

“Get to the goddamn point, Crowley. What’s the counterspell?” Dean asks.

Crowley smiles. “What do the three ingredients have in common?”

“This isn’t a guessing game,” Dean says shortly.

Crowley rolls his eyes then, smile gone. “It’s really not that difficult, you know. A halfwit could figure this one out.”

“Crowley—” Dean starts, tone angrier.

“ _Love_ , you twat,” Crowley says. “A nephilim can only be created by love between man and angel. Cupid’s bow creates love. And Cas. Oh, Cas. The grace of an angel who fell in love. Do you know how rare you are?”

Castiel glares at the demon. “We already knew the ingredients to the spell. Now give us the ingredients to counter them,” he says.

“Well, specifically, the spell used to shut the angels out of Heaven required the  _destruction_  of love,” Crowley says, and Castiel wonders at the eagerness in his tone, the way he leans forward slightly in his seat.

He really must be starved for company, locked up like this.

“The spell required killing the product of love, removing the means of creating love, and finally, taking the essence of a being in love that was never meant to experience it.”

“That makes no sense. Angels were made to love God,” Castiel interrupts, caught up in the details despite his impatience. “Besides, you said yourself the nephilim was created by love between man and angel.”

“Love comes in all different flavors,” Crowley says. “Angels could feel pious love, or filial or fraternal, or carnal even, but they were not meant for romantic love.”

“Can we just—get past this part?” Dean says.

Of course. Dean is uncomfortable with love, unless it is the fraternal love he feels for his brother. And even then, Castiel does not think he has heard him use the word with sincerity, with weight.

“To counter the death of a nephilim, you must create one,” Crowley says. “To counter the taking of cupid’s bow, you must return it to him. To counter the theft of your grace...”

Crowley’s voice trails off then, eyes intent on Castiel, and Castiel wants to shake the truth right out of him.

“... well, we can come to that when you’ve gathered the first two ingredients.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortest chapter yet, didn't even hit 1k :( I was definitely averaging over 1k a chapter for these 50min timed writes, but I'm apparently rusty, slower than before.
> 
> Oh well, we're easing back in here. Baby steps. Thanks for your patience with this fic (all three of you who are actually interested, bahah).
> 
> Also, happy birthday, Dean!

“You must be fucking joking,” Dean says.

Crowley only shrugs. “Believe it, or don’t. It’s only Castiel’s feathered arse and your botched love affair—” Dean sputters at this, but Crowley continues, “—on the line, so I really couldn’t care less whether you pull this off.”

“Don’t pretend you aren’t invested,” Castiel says. “You’ll be imprisoned here unless we achieve our goal, so help us.”

“I already told you what I know. What more do you want from me?”

“You’ve given us useless information,” Castiel says. “The angels have fallen. The cupid whose bow I took could be dead. And without angels, there can be no nephilim.”

Crowley arches one eyebrow and says, “What, so fallen angels lose their ability to procreate? Do you have more than one piece missing, Cas?”

“Fuck this—forget about it,” Dean blurts out, turning toward the door.

Castiel has hardly enough time to turn before Dean is gone, the door falling closed behind him.

Crowley tuts. “Temper, temper.”

“Shut up,” Castiel snaps, and heads for the door as well.

Just before the door closes behind him, he hears, “I’ll just wait here, then.”

Unsurprisingly, Dean is nowhere to be seen. Castiel resolves to find him and determine what has him so frustrated so suddenly. There may be no angels remaining, and finding Gail is highly improbable, but stranger things certainly have happened over the course of Castiel’s time with the Winchesters.

Castiel scours the bunker, but after several minutes, he discovers that the Impala is missing.

But—it’s dangerous out there. Why would Dean leave?

“Couldn’t find him, huh?” Sam says when Castiel returns to his bedroom.

“He took the car,” Castiel replies.

Sam seems frailer than he was just a few minutes ago, and Castiel hesitates just inside the entrance, abruptly unsure of himself. Kevin beckons him closer, and Sam nods, so Castiel steps fully inside and closes the door.

“What did Crowley say?” Sam asks.

Castiel is loath to repeat it, but he answers, “He only gave us the first two ingredients to the counterspell: create a nephilim, and return cupid’s bow.”

Sam’s brow furrows. ”Do you believe him?”

“Pfft.  _I_  don’t,” Kevin says. “He’s got a motive for everything he does. Even if it  _is_ the truth, there’ll probably be some hidden prize for him in it somewhere.”

“It’s not so hidden in this case. It’s obvious he wants his freedom,” Castiel points out.

“Yeah, but that’s not the only thing he wants,” Kevin argues. “How can there even be new nephilim, now that the angels have fallen? Can a graceless angel still create nephilim, or will the baby just be human?”

“I do not know,” Castiel says. “We weren’t to speak of these things.”

“Even if it’s possible, you’d have to find an angel and a human willing to—y’know,” Kevin says, making a hand gesture that Castiel does not recognize.

“I know what?”

“Well—you know,” Kevin says, repeating the gesture, “—do the deed.”

“He means sex, Cas,” Sam interjects.

Ah. Sexual intercourse.

Kevin clears his throat. “Yeah. That. Thanks, Sam. And even then, you’d have to wait nine months ‘til the baby was born. It’s a long time for a spell.”

“Some spells require centuries of waiting for the celestial bodies to align.”

As he finishes speaking, it occurs to Castiel that if this counterspell fails to return him and his brothers to Heaven, he may not live another century.

He has faced death before, but he has never been mortal the way he is now. It is utterly disconcerting.

(You are not gonna die a virgin. Not on my watch.)

Dean never did follow through, though, and Castiel did indeed die a virgin. Inexplicably, absurdly, the thought makes him chuckle.

Sam huffs, and Castiel remembers that he has an audience.

“What’s so funny?”

“It is of no consequence,” Castiel says. He moves closer to the bed, reaching out to rest a hand over Sam’s. “You’re unwell. We shouldn’t be troubling you with these matters.”

“Hey,” Sam says, “I’m good.”

The statement is so far from the truth, and Castiel feels bitterness welling up inside him, gut-deep, galling.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sam adds. “I mean—I know I’m not good. Just—I’m okay with it. Dying.”

The words actually hurt.

Castiel has been so caught up in his own dilemma that he hasn’t honestly considered the possibility that Sam may die. The knowledge has been there, but the weight of it has eluded him until this very moment, and it makes his throat tighten up, nearly chokes him.

“I’m not,” Kevin says, speaking Castiel’s thoughts. “I’m not okay with it.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Sam says. Lifting his arm a little, he adds, “You can keep feeding me intravenously, but it’s only gonna last so long.”

“We’ll find a way,” Kevin says. “We have to. You guys beat the devil  _and_  the leviathans. There’s gonna be a way. I know it. Right, Cas?”

Castiel blinks, stares down at his earnest eyes.

Of course he’s not right.

(That’s not possible.)

(Then humor me.)

“Right,” Castiel says. (Lies. Like he’s supposed to.)

Kevin turns back to Sam and says, “We’ll figure out all this shit with the fallen angels, and when Cas is angeled up again, we’ll fix you.”

Were Kevin’s soul still visible to him, Castiel is certain it would be very bright in this moment, filled with unflinching hope. Castiel envies him his optimism.

“Yeah,” Sam says, though he clearly does not believe it.

Castiel squeezes Sam’s hand, colder than his, and Sam smiles up at him.

“Thanks, guys.”


	13. Chapter 13

Castiel really begins to worry when Dean doesn’t return for dinner. Sam stopped being able to keep food down days ago, when Castiel first returned to the bunker, so he’s been fed intravenously since, but Dean has been diligent at keeping Kevin and Castiel nourished.

Kevin throws together some dinner for them, apologizing briefly to Castiel because he isn’t experienced.

“That is of no consequence,” Castiel says, and thanks Kevin for the meal.

After eating, Kevin excuses himself, and Castiel takes the plates to the kitchen to wash them. It’s only fair, as Kevin was the one to prepare the meal.

It’s surprising how calming the task is, but after the dishes have been washed, dried, and put away again, Castiel returns to the main room and pauses, turning to look at the stairs leading up to the bunker’s entrance.

Where is Alana?

Where is Dean?

He wants to leave, but then—what if they return?

Castiel paces for a time, restless. He eventually sits down at one of the long tables and grabs the book sitting on its surface, set aside but not returned to the library. It’s a book of old healing spells, rituals, some of which Castiel recognizes.

They won’t help Sam, regrettably. Whether it was Dean or Kevin, that was undoubtedly the goal of reading this book.

Castiel is unsure whether he should let them have hope or whether he should spare them the wasted time.

He sets the book aside, troubled, worry for Sam jumbling with his worry for Dean, for Alana. For both of them.

(Both of them? They’re one and the same.)

Except they aren’t. They  _aren’t_.

Castiel leaps to his feet, furious, and begins to pace again. He needs to be doing something. Needs to be useful.

They need to return cupid’s bow to him, according to Crowley. Does that mean they need to find Gail specifically? Or could they return a bow to any cupid? Surely the cupids all lost their bows when they fell to Earth.

A revelation makes Castiel pause.

The cupids would have lost their bows when they fell to Earth. Naturally, only Metatron could have used Gail’s bow to strike Castiel and Alana. Castiel recalls the existence of a spell for finding the cupid responsible for a couple, using the arrow he cast. Each bow shoots a unique arrow.

Unfortunately, his human memory is fallible now, and he is only sure of perhaps half the ingredients.

Perhaps Kevin would be able to fill in the blanks with knowledge from the tablet, but it is unlikely, as cupids are not referenced there at all.

The excitement at his revelation fades, and Castiel sinks into the nearest chair with a sigh.

Then he hears the door being unlocked, and it occurs to him that he does not have a weapon. He’d never needed to carry one; his blade had been part of him, and he misses its weight now.

All thoughts fly from his head at the sight of Dean appearing, followed by—Dean.

(Not-Dean.)

( _Please_ , not now.)

“Dean,” he says, and squints, blinks a few times.

Alana was the second figure to enter, and Pam follows her in now. Dean stays by the door to lock it behind them, and Alana and Pam precede him down the flight of stairs.

“Cas,” Alana says, and it’s instinctive to return her embrace.

“You’re alive,” Castiel says, surprised by the relief in his own voice.

But then Dean (real Dean, the real Dean) is coming down the steps, a stormy look on his features, and Castiel lets his arms drop to his sides, unable to go so far as to push Alana away.

Sensing the reason for his hasty withdrawal, she backs up, clearing her throat, and Castiel is grateful, yet he aches at the loss.

“Sorry,” she says, eyes flitting to Dean.

“Yeah,” is all Dean says, and then he stalks past her, past Castiel.

“Wait—Dean,” Castiel says, turning and taking two quick steps to catch Dean’s elbow. “We need to talk.”

“I gotta get these two settled in first,” Dean says, jerking his head back toward Alana and Pam. He doesn’t even meet Castiel’s eyes.

“It’s okay,” Pam says quickly. “We can wait here a bit while you guys, uh. While you sort things out.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says before Dean can speak, and then he releases Dean and starts toward the corridor that leads to the bedrooms, trusting that Dean will follow him.

It aches to leave Alana behind, but it has to be done.

It  _has_  to.

Inside the bedroom temporarily allocated to him, Castiel only has to wait a few seconds before Dean steps inside. When Castiel motions for him to shut the door, he does.

“Why did you bring her back?” Castiel asks. His voice doesn’t shake, but he thinks he might crumble at any minute, might cave to the desire to see her and dash from the room.

Dean is only a short walk away. (Not-Dean.)

In front of him, Dean exhales shortly. “I wasn’t looking for her on purpose,” he says. “I just happened to see them. Figured she was exactly what we needed.”

Castiel fails to understand. “Needed? For what?”

Dean looks at him in plain disbelief. “You heard Crowley. We need to create a nephilim. Y’know, half human, half angel? And you’re already in love with her. Why not have a baby.”

The thought makes Castiel’s heart race, makes his blood rush with excitement, but—

(Find a wife. Make babies.)

( _No._ )

Castiel sets his jaw. “You know why not,” he says, even as his entire body thrums with want.

“Well how the hell else are we supposed to create a nephilim?”

“I don’t know. But it won’t be me, and it won’t be with—with her,” Castiel says vehemently. He prays that Dean does not attempt to sway him. Castiel is already on uneven footing, and with a push from Dean, he will fall. “That’s exactly what Metatron wants,” he continues. “For me to marry her, to have children with her.”

Dean’s face is unreadable. “What if it’s the only way to break the spell?”

“It can’t be,” Castiel says. “There are other fallen angels. There are billions of other human beings.”

“What, and we’re just gonna convince two of them to have a baby for us?”

“Maybe,” Castiel says recklessly.

Dean starts to turn away, wordless, but Castiel cannot have that, so he lunges forward, grabs Dean’s face in his hands, looks into his startled eyes.

(Dean.  _This_  is Dean.)

“I know who you are,” Castiel asserts, voice barely above a whisper. “I know who you are.”

“Cas,” Dean says, but he doesn’t go on.

“You cannot be replaced,” Castiel declares, directed as much to himself as to Dean. “I will not let that happen.”

(It already has happened. It already has. It’s too late.)

(It can’t be.)

“Cas,” Dean says again, and presses their mouths together.


End file.
